flushed. "That's not true, Morrel," he said softly, "andyou know it's not true."
Morrel shrugged. "Have it your own way," he said, indifferently."Take a rest, Strang. Go home. Get some rest. And don't bother me withany more of your fairy tales." He turned suddenly on Roger. "And becareful what _you_ do with guns, Strang. The only thing about thisthat I _do_ know is that somebody shot a pistol off and scared hellout of your son. You were the only one around, as far as I know. Idon't know your game, but you'd better be careful--"
* * * * *
Strang left Security Headquarters, and crossed across to the Labs,frustrated and angry. His mind spun over the accident--incredulous,but more incredulous that Morrel would practically laugh at him. Hestopped by the Labs building to watch the workmen putting up a largeelectronic projector in one of the test yards. Work was going ahead.But so slowly.
Roger was aware of the tall thin man who had joined him before helooked around. Martin Drengo put a hand on his shoulder. "Beenavoiding me lately?"
"Martin!" Roger Strang turned, his face lighting up. "No, not avoidingyou--I've been so busy my own wife hasn't seen me in four days. Howare things in Maintenance?"
The thin man smiled sadly. "How are things ever in Maintenance? Firsta railroad breaks down, then there's a steel strike, then somepaymaster doesn't make a payroll--the war knocked things for a loop,Roger. Even now things are still loopy. And how are things inProduction?"
Roger scowled. "Let's have some coffee," he said.
They sat in a back corner booth of the Base Dispensary as Roger toldabout David. Martin Drengo listened without interruption. He was athin man from top to bottom, a shock of unruly black hair topping analmost cadaverous face, blue eyes large behind thick lenses. His wholebody was like a skeleton, his fingers long and bony as he lit acigarette. But the blue eyes were quick, and the nods warm andunderstanding. He listened, and then he said, "It couldn't have beenan outsider?"
Roger shrugged. "Anything is possible. But why? Why go after a kid?"
Drengo hunched his shoulders forward. "I don't get it," he said."David has done nothing to give him enemies." He drew on hiscigarette. "What did Morrel have to say?"
"He laughed at me! Wouldn't even listen to me. Told me to go home andgo to bed, that I was all wet. I tell you, Martin, I _saw_ it! Youknow I wouldn't lie, you know I don't see things that don't happen."
"Yes," said Martin, glumly. "I believe you, all right. But I can't seewhy your son should be the target. You'd be more likely." He stood up,stretching his long legs. "Look, old boy. Take Morrel's advice, atleast temporarily. Go home and get some sleep now; you're all workedup. I'll go in and talk to Morrel. Maybe I can handle that old buzzardbetter than you can."
Roger watched his friend amble down the aisle and out of the store. Hefelt better now that he had talked to Drengo. Smiling to himself, hefinished off his coffee. Many a scrape he and Martin had seen throughtogether. He remembered that night of horror when the bomb fell on thecity, his miraculous rescue, the tall thin figure, reflecting the redglare from his glasses, forcing his way through the burning timbers ofthe building, tearing Roger's leg loose from the rubble covering it;the frightful struggle through the rubbish, fighting off fear-crazedmobs that sought to stop them, rob them, kill them. They had made thelong trek together, Martin and he, the Evacuation Road down toMaryland, the Road of Horrors, lined with the rotting corpses of thedead and the soon-dead, the dreadful refuse of that horrible night.Martin Drengo had been a stout friend to Roger; he'd been with Martinthe night he'd met Ann; took the ring from Martin's finger when theystood at the altar on their wedding day; shared with Martin hisclosest confidence.
Roger sighed and paid for the coffee. What to do? The boy was homenow, recovering from the shock of the attack. Roger caught anout-bound tri-wheel, and sped down the busy thoroughfare toward hishome. If Martin could talk to Morrel, and get something done, perhapsthey could get a line. Somehow, perhaps they could trace theattackers. In the morning he'd see Martin again, and they could figureout a scheme.
But he didn't have a chance to see Martin again. For at 11:30 thatnight, the marauders struck again. For the third time.
* * * * *
Through his sleep he heard a door close down below, and sat boltupright in bed, his heart pounding wildly. Only a tiny sound, theclick of a closing door--
Ann was sitting up beside him, brown hair close around her head, herbody tense. "Roger!" she whispered. "Did you hear something?"
Roger was out of bed, bounding across the room, into the hall. Bloodpounded in his ears as he rushed to David's room, stopped shortbefore the open door.
The shots rang out like whip cracks, and he saw the yellow flame fromthe guns. There were two men in the dark room, standing at the bedwhere the boy lay rolled into a terrified knot. The guns cracked againand again, ripping the bedding, bursting the pillow into a shower offeathers, tearing the boy's pajamas from his thin body, a dozenblazing shots--
Roger let out a strangled cry, grabbed one of the men by the throat,in a savage effort to stop the murderous pistols. The other man caughthim a coarse blow behind the ear, and he staggered hard against thewall. Dully he heard the door slam, heavy footsteps down the corridor,running down the stairs.
He struggled feebly to his feet, glancing at the still form on thebed. Choking back a sob he staggered down the hall, shouting to Ann ashe went down the stairs, redoubling his speed as he heard the purr ofautojets in the driveway. In a moment he was in his own car,frantically stamping on the starter. It started immediately, the motorbooming, and the powerful jet engines forced the heavy car aheaddangerously, taking the corner on two of its three wheels. He knewthat Ann would call Security, and he raced to gain on the tail lightsthat were disappearing down the winding residential road to the mainhighway. Throwing caution to the winds, Roger swerved the car across afront lawn, down between two houses, into an alley, and throughanother driveway, gaining three blocks. Ahead, at the junction withthe main Base highway he saw the long black autojet turn right.
* * * * *
Roger snaked into traffic on the highway and bore down on the blackcar. Traffic was light because of the late hour, but the patrol was onthe road and might stop him instead of the killers. The other car wastraveling at top speed, swerving around the slower cars. Roger gainedslowly. He fingered the spotlight, preparing to snap it in thedriver's eyes. Taking a curve at 90, he crept up alongside the blackcar as he heard the siren of a patrol car behind him. Cursing, heedged over on the black car, snapped the spotlight full in the face ofthe driver--
The screaming siren forced him off the road, and he braked hard, hishands trembling. A patrolman came over to the car, gun drawn. He tooka quick look at Roger, and his face tightened. "Mr. Strang," he saidsharply. "We've been looking for you. You're wanted at Security."
"That car," Roger started weakly. "You've got to stop that car I waschasing--"
"Never mind that car," the patrolman snarled. "It's you they want. Hopout. We'll go in the patrol car."
"You've got to stop them--"
The patrolman fingered his gun. "Security wants to talk to you, Mr.Strang. Hop out."
Roger moved dazedly from his car. He didn't question the patrolman; hehardly even heard him. His mind raced in a welter of confusion, tryingdesperately to refute the brilliant picture in his mind from thatsplit-second that the spotlight had rested on the driver of the blackcar, trying to fit the impossible pieces into their places. For thesecond man in the black autojet had been John Morrel, chief of BarrierBase Security, and the driver had been Martin Drengo--
* * * * *
The man at the desk was a stranger to Roger Strang. He was an elderlyman, stooped, with graying hair and a small clipped mustache thatseemed to stick out like antennae. He watched Roger impassively withsteel gray eyes, motioning him to a chair.
"You led us a merry chase," he said flatly, his voi
ce brittle. "A verymerry chase. The alarm went out for you almost an hour ago."
Strang's cheeks were red with anger. "My son was shot tonight. I wastrying to follow the killers--"
"Killers?" The man raised his eyebrows.
"Yes, killers!" Roger snapped. "Do I have to draw you a picture? Theyshot my son down in his bed."
The gray-haired man stared at him for a long time. "Well," he saidfinally in a baffled tone. "Now I've heard everything."
It was Roger's turn to stare. "Can't you understand what I've said?_My son was murdered._"
The gray-haired man flipped a pencil down on the desk impatiently."Mr. Strang," he said elaborately. "My name is Whitman. I flew downhere from Washington tonight, after being called from my bed by thecommanding officer of this base. I am the National Chief of theFederal Bureau of Security, Mr. Strang, and I am not interested infairy tales. I would like you to come off it now, and answer somequestions for me. And I don't want double-talk. I want answers. Do Imake myself quite clear?"
Roger stared at him, finally nodded his head. "Quite," he saidsourly.
Whitman hunched forward in his chair. "Mr. Strang, how long have youbeen working in the Barrier Base?"
"Five years. Ever since the bombing of New York."
Whitman nodded. "Oh, yes. The bombing of New York." He looked sharplyat Roger. "And how old are you, Mr. Strang?"
Roger looked up, surprised. "Thirty-two, of course. You have myrecords. Why are you asking?"
The gray-haired man lit a cigarette. "Yes, we have your records," hesaid offhandedly. "Very interesting records, quite normal, quite inorder. Nothing out of the ordinary." He stood up and looked out on thedark street. "Just one thing wrong with your records, Mr. Strang. Theyaren't true."
Roger stared. "This is ridiculous," he blurted. "What do you mean,they aren't true?"
Whitman took a deep breath, and pulled a sheet of paper out of a sheafon his desk. "It says here," he said, "that you are Roger Strang, andthat you were born in Indianola, Iowa, on the fourteenth of June,2051. That your father was Jason Strang, born 11 August, 2023, inChicago, Illinois. That you lived in Indianola until you were twelve,when your father moved to New York City, and was employed with theNorth American Electronics Laboratories. That you enteredInternational Polytechnic Institute at the age of 21, studying physicsand electronics, and graduated in June 2075 with the degree ofBachelor of Electronics. That you did further work, taking a Mastersand Doctorate in Electronics at Polytech in 2077."
Whitman took a deep breath. "That's what it says here. A very ordinaryrecord. But there is no record there of your birth in Indianola, Iowa,in 2051 or any other time. There is no record there of your father,the alleged Jason Strang, nor in Chicago. No one by the name of JasonStrang was ever employed by North American Electronics. No one by thename of Roger Strang ever attended Polytech." Whitman watched him withcold eyes. "To the best of our knowledge, and according to allavailable records, _there never was anyone named Roger Strang untilafter the bombing of New York_."
Roger sat stock still, his mind racing. "This is silly," he saidfinally. "Perfectly idiotic. Those schools _must_ have records--"
Whitman's face was tight. "They do have records. Complete records. Butthe name of Roger Strang is curiously missing from the roster ofgraduates in 2075. Or any other year." He snubbed his cigaretteangrily. "I wish you would tell me, and save us both muchunpleasantness. _Just who are you, Mr. Strang, and where do you comefrom?_"
Strang stared at the man, his pulse pounding in his head. Filteringinto his mind was a vast confusion, some phrase, some word, somenebulous doubt that frightened him, made him almost believe thatgray-haired man in the chair before him. He took a deep breath,clearing his mind of the nagging doubt. "Look here," he said,exasperated. "When I was drafted for the Barrier Base, they checkedfor my origin, for my education and credentials. If they had beenfalse, I'd have been snapped up right then. Probably shot--they wereshooting people for chewing their fingernails in those days. Iwouldn't have stood a chance."
Whitman nodded his head vigorously. "Exactly!" he snapped. "You_should_ have been picked up. But you weren't even suspected until wedid a little checking after that accident in the Labs buildingyesterday. Somehow, false credentials got through for you. Securitydoes not like false credentials. I don't know how you did it, but youdid. I want to know how."
"But, I tell you--" Roger stood up, fear suddenly growing in his mind.He lit a cigarette, took two nervous puffs, and set it down,forgotten, on the ash-tray. "I have a wife," he said shakily. "Imarried her in New York City. We had a son, born in a hospital in NewYork City. He went to school there. Surely there must be some kind ofrecord--"
Whitman smiled grimly, almost mockingly. "Good old New York City," hesnarled. "Married there, you say? Wonderful! Son born there? In theone city in the country where that information _can never be checked_.That's very convenient, Mr. Strang. Or whoever you are. I think you'dbetter talk."
Roger snubbed out the cigarette viciously. "My son," he said after along pause. "He was murdered tonight. Shot down in his bed--"
The Security Chief's face went white. "Garbage!" he snapped. "Whatkind of a fool do you think I am, Strang? Your son murdered--bah! Whenthe alarm went out for you I personally drove to your home. Oddlyenough this wife of yours wasn't at home, but your son was. Nicelittle chap. He made us some coffee, and explained that he didn'tknow where his parents were, because he'd been asleep all night.Quietly asleep in his bed--"
The words were clipped out, and rang in Roger's ears, incredibly. Hishand shook violently as he puffed his cigarette, burning his fingerson the short butt. "I don't believe it," he muttered hollowly. "I sawit happen--"
Whitman sneered. "Are you going to talk or not?"
Roger looked up helplessly. "I don't--know--" he said, weakly. "Idon't know."
The Security Chief threw up his hands in disgust. "Then we'll do itthe hard way," he grated. Flipping an intercom switch, his voicesnapped out cold in the still room. "Send in Psych squad," he growled."We've got a job to do--"
* * * * *
Roger Strang lay back on the small bunk, his nerves yammering from thesteady barrage, lights still flickering green and red in his eyes. Hisbody was limp, his mind functioning slowly, sluggishly. His eyelidswere still heavy from the drugs, his wrists and forehead burning andsore where the electrodes had been attached. His muscles hardlyresponded when he tried to move, his strength completely gone--washedout. He simply lay there, his shallow breathing returning to him fromthe dark stone walls.
The inquisition had been savage. The hot lights, the smooth-faced menfiring questions, over and over, the drugs, the curious sensation ofmouthing nonsense, of hearing his voice rambling on crazily, yet beingunable in any way to control it; the hypnotic effect of Whitman's softvoice, the glitter in his steel-gray eyes, and the questions,questions, questions. The lie detector had been going by his side,jerking insanely at his answers, every time the same answers, everytime setting the needle into wild gyrations. And finally the foggy,indistinct memory of Whitman mopping his forehead and stampingsavagely on a cigarette, and muttering desperately, "It's no use!Lies! Nothing but lies, lies, lies! He _couldn't_ be lying under thistreatment, but he is. _And he knows he is!_"
Lies? Roger stretched his heavy limbs, his mind struggling up into atardy rejection. Not lies! He hadn't lied--he had been answering thetruth to the questions. He couldn't have been lying, for the answerswere there, clear in his memory. And yet--the same nagging doubt creptthrough, the same feeling that had plagued him throughout theinquisition, the nagging, haunting, horrible conviction, somewhere inthe depths of his numb brain that he _was_ lying! Something wasmissing somewhere, some vast gap in his knowledge, something of whichhe simply was not aware. The incredible turnabout of Martin Drengo,the attack on David, who was killed, but somehow was not dead. He_had_ to be lying--
But how could he lie, and still know that he was not lying? Hissluggish mind wrestled, t
rying to choke back the incredible doubt.Somewhere in the morass, the picture of Martin Drengo camethrough--Drengo, the traitor, who was trying to kill his son--but theconviction swept through again, overpowering, the certain knowledgethat Drengo was _not_ a traitor, that he must trust Drengo. Drengo washis friend, his stalwart--
HIS AGENT!
Strang sat bolt upright on the cot, his head spinning. The thought hadbroken through crystal clear in the darkness, revealed itself for thebriefest instant, then swirled down again into the foggy gulf. Agent?Why should he have an agent? What purpose? Frantically he scanned hismemory for Drengo, down along the dark channels, searching. Drengo hadcome through the fire, into the burning building, carried him like achild through the flames into safety. Drengo had been best man at hiswedding--but he'd been married before the bombing of the city. _Or hadhe?_ Where did Drengo fit in? Was the fire the first time he had seenDrengo?
Something deep in his mind forced its way through, saying NO! YOU HAVEKNOWN HIM ALL YOUR LIFE! Roger fought it back, frantically. Never!Back in Iowa there had been no Drengo. Nor in Chicago. Nor in NewYork. He
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